


Fun Size

by crazynadine, EG Challenge Submissions (6mgs7)



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Canon Divergent, Canon Typical Violence, Closeted Characters, Costumes, Denial of Feelings, Drinking, EGChallenge3, Fist Fights, Gallavich Halloween, Halloween, M/M, Mutual Pining, Parties, Questioning Sexuality, Sadness, Sexual Situations, Trick or Treating, Weed, faking heterosexuality, fun size candy bars.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-09 19:15:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16455734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazynadine/pseuds/crazynadine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/6mgs7/pseuds/EG%20Challenge%20Submissions
Summary: Trick or Treating takes an interesting turn when a 14 year old Ian runs into a 15 year old Mickey on the streets.





	Fun Size

                                                             

 

October 30th, 2009

 

Ian may only be fourteen years old, but he's not stupid. He knows a lot of shit for a kid his age.

He knows his family is poor. Like, way poorer than the rest of the neighborhood. He knows that just by looking around as he and his older brother Lip meander through the neighborhood, pillowcases half full of candy swinging from their fists. Ian glances up and down the street, at all the other kids out trick or treating. He sees a lot of really cool costumes. Expensive looking shit.

Draculas and Power Rangers, football players and fairies. Ian's seen at least three Dora the Explorers. He glances down at his own sad excuse for a costume. Green scrubs he scored from Good Will and a stethoscope he borrowed from Vee. He's supposed to be a doctor, but he feels like an idiot. Not for the first time, he wishes his life were different. His eyes flit over to his brother, who is walking beside him, riffling through his sack, taking inventory of his haul. Lip is dressed as a zombie, wearing dirty, tattered clothes they found in the basement. He's covered in fake blood and his face is all done up in monster make up to make it look like he's been dead for months. Lip stole the makeup, but Ian applied it, so he thinks his brother's costume is a pretty epic win, and a team effort.

Ian should have been a zombie.

He also knows that there is something very wrong with him. Like with his mind. Like he's missing some essential lobe of his brain, the part that would make him a normal guy. He knows this because Megan Liston has been walking with him and his brother for the past two blocks, talking to them and touching Ian anywhere she can reach, and he feels nothing. He can see Lip glaring at him, jealously evident in his eyes, but all Ian wants to do is tell him to please just take her. Get her off of Ian.

Megan is a girl from the neighborhood. She's in the ninth grade with Ian, but they are not friends, so her chummy behavior is a little confusing. Ian glances over at her. She's wearing a ridiculously tiny Tinkerbell costume. Short, tight green dress, wings, fishnet stockings, the whole nine yards. Her blond hair is twisted up on top of her head in a complicated looking bun, and she's wearing too much make up, and this super fruity body spray. The scent of strawberries is so strong, Ian wants to gag.

But Ian knows he should be happy Megan is hanging off him. Touching him. Flirting with him. He can see it all over his brother, in the way his eyes travel down her body. Ian should feel like the luckiest kid in the neighborhood right now.

Everyone wants Megan.

But Ian is frightened to find he feels nothing. He's been slowly coming to a grim conclusion over the past few months. Something he can't deny or brush off anymore. Something he's terrified to say out loud, something he doesn't even want to admit to himself.

Ian is gay.

He's only fourteen, but he knows it's true. Just like it's true that he's got red hair, or green eyes. Just like he's left handed. It just is.

He started to notice it around sixth grade, coincidentally around the same time he started changing for gym class. Being surrounded by his male classmates, in various stages of undress, started to have the most curious effect on him.

He knew what a boner was. He paid attention in health class, and Lip never shut up about how hard he got whenever Amy Andrews bent over. So, he knew what it meant when his dick started to twitch watching the boys coming from the showers dripping wet. He just didn't want to believe it. He couldn't be gay, not in this neighborhood. He's seen enough fag bashings to know what happens to queers on the south side.

He's spent the last two years of his miserable life trying to rewire his brain, fix himself. He's watched so much straight porn, he could draw a naked woman from memory, even though he's never seen one in real life. He and Lip had stayed up countless nights in their room, watching porn on the family laptop. Ian is embarrassed to admit that he spends the whole time staring at the man, watching his hips thrust, the muscles in his back move. Wondering what that would feel like, but with another man.  He blocks out the woman and her insipid moaning. Every single time.

 He hasn't told a soul about his problem, and he doesn’t think he ever will. He just has to figure out a way to make himself straight.

There has to be something he can do.

So, he lets Megan hang off his shoulder, swaying her hips wide with every step so she bumps Ian's hip every time. He tries to find something, anything about Megan that could possibly get him hot, but comes up woefully empty.

He should have just stayed home. This is awful. He could be playing video games right now.

"Ian?" Megan's voice shatters his thoughts, and he turns to her, confused.

"What?"

"I asked if you guys wanted to come to a party later? Vinny Desota is throwing a rager. His mom's in rehab again." she smiled at him, trailing a hand down his chest. Ian's brow furrowed and he glanced at his brother, eyes pleading for rescue.

Lip, of course, didn't understand Ian's plight. He obviously doesn't understand why Ian would need him to step in anyway.

In that moment, Ian feels incredibly alone.

 "I mean, we could come by later, but we wanna finish hittin' up the rest of these houses first." Lip said, glancing down the street, mentally calculating all the candy they had yet to score.

"Oh." Megan's face fell. She turned to face Ian, grabbing him by the shoulders and stopping his forward motion. Ian was frozen, just staring into Megan's weird gray eyes. "Well, I'm gonna go now, but come by later, my brother got me a bottle of Jager." with that she darts forward quickly, pressing her lips to Ian's before pulling back just as fast and darting down the street.

Ian stood there in the middle of the road, utterly flabbergasted, and frankly feeling a little bit like he'd been assaulted.

"What the fuck was that?" Ian asked, starting down the street again, Lip a few steps behind him.

"Dude, that was a hot chick hitting on you. What are you, eight?"

"Yeah, okay." Ian said, shaking his head. "But why does that give her the right to just kiss me like that? Did I like, give her an idea that I wanted that shit?"

Lip chuckled, finally catching up to Ian and slinging an arm around his shoulder. "Ian, any guy would be stoked to get a kiss from Megan. Hell, I'd kill to get a piece a'that. Consider yourself lucky she's into pale ass ginger freaks, man."

Ian huffed, shoving his brother off him roughly. "Fuck off, Lip."

Lip laughed and they made their way down the street in companionable silence. Ian's mind was still reeling from his encounter with Megan. The kiss had only served to solidify the fact that Ian was a homo. He swears he actually felt his dick retract protectively into his body when that girl's lips touched him.

God, he was so fucked.

"C'mon, man." Lip said, pulling Ian up the lawn of their next target house. "We'll score some more of those baby candy bars your so fond of."

"It's not baby sized, asshole." Ian chuckled, swatting Lip's head. "It's Fun Size."

 

***

 

"Aren't you a little old to be trick or treating?" the crotchety bitch asks from her doorway, big bowl of candy wrapped in her arms, just out of reach.

"I'm not old enough to vote, so I'm young enough to trick or treat." Mickey snarks back, eliciting a chuckle from his brother. Iggy is leaning up against the lady's porch, arms crossed over his chest, waiting. They're supposed to be members of Kiss, but really, they are just wearing Kiss t shirts and dirty black jeans.

The lady rolls her eyes, but finally drops some candy into both of their pillow cases. Mickey smirks at her, turning on his heel and bounding off the porch. He can hear the old bat bellowing about their lack of manners all the way down the street.

"Free shit is awesome." Iggy giggles, clearly stoned out of his mind. Mickey nods, fishing a mini Snickers out of his bag and tearing into the wrapper with his teeth. He tosses the plastic to the ground as he chomps on the treat. Snickers are his favorite, fucking delicious.

"Would be better if these fucking candy bars were full size." Mickey mutters, stuffing yet another mini snickers in his mouth.

"Dude, those candy bars are perfect for you." Iggy laughs, tossing back a box of nerds and dropping the cardboard in the street.

"And why the fuck is that?" Mickey snarls back, knowing he's walking into a trap. Iggy's always got something smart to say to Mickey.

"These fun size shits." Iggy replies, holding up a miniature Mars bar. "Is perfect for your tiny ass. What are you, three feet tall? You're like a fun size Milkovich." Iggy bursts out laughing, clearly pleased with himself.

"Get fucked." Mickey snaps, pushing his brother into an overflowing trash can. Mickey chuckles as Iggy flails in the street, wiping some spoiled cole slaw off his shirt.

"Dude, come on." Iggy groused. "It's not my fault you’re a god damn hobbit."

Mickey rolls his eyes, but doesn't respond. It's just not worth ruining his high to get into it with Iggy any more.

Mickey and Iggy wander the neighborhood, alternating between knocking on doors and knocking the other neighborhood kids around. Iggy pushed some asshole in an astronaut costume into a puddle, losing his shit laughing when the poor schmuck started crying.

"Fucking pussy." Iggy called over his shoulder as they left their latest victim whining in the gutter.

Iggy and Mickey were celebrating tonight. They had both just wrapped a 90-day bid in Juvie, over some stupid bullshit. They never should have gotten caught. Milkovichs are smarter than that shit. It was really a 'wrong place, wrong time' thing.

Terry had run up a pretty considerable tab with Ace, the nastiest, meanest, scariest drug dealer on the south side. Mickey's father had been into the meth dealer for five grand, and he'd owed it for a long ass time. So of course, he sent his two minor sons out to make the money, and deliver it to Ace. Mickey was only fifteen, Iggy barely sixteen, and their criminal prowess was not all that impressive. (not for lack of trying) So they did the only thing they could think of, they stole. They hit up Macy's, Best Buy, fucking Dick's Sporting Goods. The stole electronics, power tools, clothes, perfumes and colognes, anything they could bring to Manny at the fence. He only gave half the value, but it was easier than waiting to move all the hot shit on their own.

The funny thing is, they didn't get popped lifting any of the big ticket items. They got popped lifting steaks out of the Stop & Save. Fucking humiliating. But it was usually an easy hustle, and both Manny and Ace took filet mignon as trade.

Mickey and Iggy got pinched in the parking lot, with three hundred dollars worth of Kobe steaks stuffed down their pants, and the trunk of Joey's Buick still full of all the other shit they had scored.

They got hit with larceny over 250, both sentenced to six months, but got out after three due to overcrowding. Always overcrowding.

The only good thing about being locked up was the guaranteed hot water, and three square meals a day. Being a Milkovich carries some weight on the inside, and Mickey and his older brother could pretty much do whatever they wanted during their stay on the state's dime.

It had also been nice to be out of Terry's reach. Mickey father was a real life monster, and Mickey didn't miss the sick prick or his beatings at all while he was locked up.

Mickey and Iggy were big fish in a little pond at JJC, running their own little crew. Other inmates waiting on them hand and foot, following them around like little lost puppies. Mickey can admit, if only to himself, that it was a bit of a power trip for his fifteen year old self. He never felt anything but small and powerless at home, so he took advantage of his elevated status while it lasted.

But most of all, it was just so fucking boring. Same shit, over and over, every day, all damn day. Same shit food, same shit TV, same shit people fighting over the same stupid shit. Mundane, boring, routine.

There was one moment during his last bid that was not routine at all. One experience Mickey looks back on with both disgust and desire. He's still not sure how it happened, really. One minute he was pushing this lanky prick up against the concrete wall of the bathroom, ready to pound his face into a mangled bloody mess, and the next the kid was on his knees, offering to suck him off instead.

The kid's name was Jimmy Andrews, and he was a north side rich bitch who enjoyed the nose candy a little too much. When he got popped for possession three months before Mickey's arrest, he owed Mickey four hundred bucks. The kid racked up drug debt faster than his mom could write checks.

So, when Mickey caught up with him in the bathroom one day before dinner, Mickey was ready to send a message Jimmy wouldn't forget. He'd get his money, if he had to beat this kid senseless every day for his entire bid to get it.

But when Jimmy fell to his knees in front of him and reached for his zipper, Mickey's mind went blank, and his whole plan went right out the window.

Mickey remembers telling him that a blow job didn't wash their debt, and that Mickey would cut his fucking tongue out if he ever breathed a word of this to anyone.

Jimmy had smirked up at him, the asshole, muttering something about everyone in jail being 'gay for the stay', and that it meant nothing.

A nut was a nut, after all.

So, Mickey had nodded angrily, knowing somewhere in the back of his mind that he was crossing a line he couldn't come back from. A line he'd promised himself for years he'd never cross.

 But fuck it, Jimmy was already down there, and the thought of getting sucked off by this dude was getting him incredibly hot. He had watched with wide eyes as Jimmy took Mickey's half hard cock in his mouth, utterly certain in that moment that the one thing he'd been denying since he was thirteen years old was true.

He was a faggot.

Mickey had spent the rest of his bid beating on any kid that gave him even an inkling of a gay vibe. He got two weeks added onto his sentence for breaking one kid's eye socket.

When he wrapped his bid, the first thing he did was head over to Angie Zago's house and fuck her into her nasty mattress. Fucking his demons out of his head.  Like he was proving something to himself.

The whole time he was banging her, though, he was picturing Jimmy fucking Andrews.

He hated himself so much in that moment.

He hates himself right now, too, if he's being honest with himself.

"Bro." Iggy said, swatting Mickey's arm. "What the fuck?"

"What?" Mickey spat, irritated. He promised himself he wouldn't think of Jimmy anymore. Fuck that kid, and his stupid mouth.

"I said, did you wanna go over to that party on Halsted? That dumbass Marty's mom is in rehab again. Supposed to be a fucking barn burner."

"Barn burner?" Mickey laughed. "What are you, Amish?"

"Fuck off, dude. You wanna go or not? Missy Roberts is supposed to be there, and she's hot for me."

"Like fuck she is." Mickey chortled.

"Again, fuck off." Iggy spat, landing a harsh punch to Mickey's shoulder. "Her friend Tammy is supposed to be there too. I heard her telling Missy she wants your dick. So, we should totally go by there."

Mickey internally grimaced. He did not want to fuck some random slut tonight. Just the thought of it had him feeling queasy. But he was still hoping he could somehow fuck the gay thoughts out of his head. Maybe if he found a hot enough girl, who could use her body right, Mickey wouldn't be turned on by dudes anymore.

Of course, the secret stash of gay porn he had under a loose floorboard in his room kind of contradicted that. Mickey is overwhelmed by shame as the memories of his last wank session popped into his head. Images of him jerking his own cock while he tentatively pushed a finger into his asshole filter through his mind, making him simultaneously nauseous and incredibly hot.

Maybe if he could find a girl that liked to shove things in his ass, he could put this shit to rest. Maybe it had nothing to do with guys. Or their strong, broad chests, or the thick muscular thighs. Definitely had nothing to do with their hard, throbbing cocks.

Mickey curses under his breath, running a hand down his mouth.

Nope. He's gay. He's a fucking faggot and there's nothing he can do about it. He can't outsmart his traitorous dick. The god damn thing's defective.

Fine, whatever, other guys get him hard. Doesn't mean he has to do a damn thing about it. Jimmy was a one-off. That shit will never happen again.

"Tammy wants to fuck?" Mickey hears himself ask.

"Yeah dude. You gotta get on that."

Mickey nods, not at all interested in fucking Tammy. He is, however, very interested in breathing, and the only way he's gonna stay above ground is by being a bad ass, womanizing thug. Those are they type of men his father raises. Anything else will be destroyed.

"Cool." Mickey says, the finality of his situation hitting him like a ton of bricks. His whole life is a lie. It will always be a lie.

No one will ever really know him. No one will ever love him. Hell, he'll probably never even have satisfying sex.

This weed he smoked with Iggy is fucking him up. It's making Mickey all introspective and emotional.

He kind of hates his life.

Kind of a lot.

"Sweet, man. This is gonna be epic." Iggy hoots, throwing a fist in the air as they make their way toward the house party.

Mickey walks silently beside his brother, giving up all pretense of trick or treating in favor of beating feet to this party. The faster he can get trashed, the better.

Mickey cast a glance around the neighborhood as he walks. The south side is always alive with activity, but tonight feels different. Instead of gunshots and screeching tires, Mickey hears children laughing and screaming. Alongside the busted liquor bottles and cigarette butts are fallen leaves and carved pumpkins. Orange lights strung up on decrepit porches and paper skeletons hanging on metal security doors.

The neighborhood is shit, but seeing it all done up for the holiday brings a smile to Mickey's face.

They are about halfway to the party spot when Iggy stops in the middle of the sidewalk. A wide, deranged smirk splits his lips as he cups his hands around his mouth and hollers up the street.

"Yo! Gallagher! I see you, you prick!"

Mickey glances up the road and sees Lip and Ian Gallagher, two kids from down the block. Their family is notoriously trashy, not like Mickey's one to talk. He doesn't know them all that well, but Iggy's clearly got beef with one of them.

Lip and Ian turn, their eyes falling on Iggy before they look back at each other and instantly take off running down the street.

"Don't you fucking run, you pussy!" Iggy screams, bolting after them. Mickey does a double take, taken aback by the sudden turn of events before getting his wits about him and joining his brother in the pursuit.

He doesn't know why Iggy wants to beat the Gallagher brothers bloody, but Milkovichs stick together, so Mickey's gonna follow his brother into the fray.

The brothers Gallagher are fast as fuck, and Mickey's still pretty stoned, so it takes a lot more effort than it usually would to catch them. But they do catch them. No one ever gets away from a Milkovich.

Iggy catches Lip first, punching him hard right between his shoulder blades. Lip goes down like a sack of potatoes, and Mickey chuckles as the other boy crumbled to the ground, his hands flying up to cover his face as Iggy straddles his chest and rains blows down on him.

Ian, the ginger, moves to jump in, but Mickey grabs him by the back of his stupid green shirt, dragging him backwards until he trips over his own gangly legs and lands hard on his ass on the pavement.

"What are you doing?" Ian squeaks, struggling to get up, get to his brother, but Mickey clamps a hand down on his shoulder, easily holding him to the ground.

Ian is terrified. He knows the Milkovich boys, knows what they are capable of. As he watches Iggy beat on his brother, he feels helpless and small. He wants to jump in, he wants to kick and punch and make Iggy bleed. But Mickey's hand is clamped down so hard on his shoulder, he can barely move. He's for sure going to have a bruise there later.

"You think I was gonna forget that shit? You really think you were gonna get away with that, you mouthy little prick??" Iggy screams as he grabs Lip by his shirt and pulls him away from the concrete. Lip just dangles there, his eyes closed, arms splayed out on either side of his body.

"What are you talking about?" Lip mumbles, a small smirk splitting his bloodied lips. He's obviously not nearly as concerned as Ian is about this turn of events.

"You called our mom a whore." Mickey pipes up, still holding Ian's shoulder. Ian turns to look up at Mickey. What he sees surprises him. Mickey doesn't look menacing or even all that mad. Ian is shocked to see sadness in his hard blue eyes. Ian shakes his head a little, because he's sure he's seeing shit when he watches Mickey wipe furiously at his wet eyes.

"T'was an educated guess." Lip spat, struggling to dislodge Iggy from his chest, where he is still straddling his body, fist raised. Ian's not sure why he's not still beating on Lip, but he has a feeling it has something to do with talking about his mom. "With a bunch of assholes like you guys for kids, she sure as shit ain't no prize."

"Our mom is dead, you asshole." Iggy growls, finally bringing his fist down. He hits Lip right on the side of his face, and his head is driven sideways with the force of it, blood spraying out of his mouth and all over the pavement.

Iggy stands without another word. He straightens out his t shirt, which has blood all over it now. He glares down at Lip's prone form on the sidewalk, before hawking up a big loogie and spitting it right on Lip's chest.

"Keep your fucking mouth shut about our mom." he growls, striding away without another word.

Lip groans and rolls over, spitting blood into the street.

Ian sits there, on the ground, shocked and confused.

Mickey realizes a little too late that his brother is half a block away and he's still standing in the street like an idiot.

And he's still touching Ian.

He rips his hand away like he's been burned. He doesn't want to think about why he didn't jump into the fight with his brother. Not that it was much of a fight, but still. He also doesn't want to think about why he didn't even swing on Ian once. He just sat there, watching Iggy go to town, with his hand resting on Ian's shoulder, like it was fucking normal or something.

He shakes himself out of it, moving quickly down the street the way Iggy went. He turns on impulse, facing the brothers as he walks backwards.

"No hard feelings, Gallagher." he calls back. He's looking at Ian when he says that, but then turns a much harder glare onto Lip. "You might wanna learn to think before you open that fat fucking mouth of yours, huh?" with that he turns around, jogging down the street to catch up with his brother.

Iggy is still fuming when he falls into step next to him.

"What the fuck was that?" Iggy says, glaring at his brother. He's got a cigarette between his lips, and Lip Gallagher's blood all over his knuckles. "You gave that ginger twat a pass."

Mickey rolled his eyes, grabbing the cigarette from his brother's shaking hand and bringing it to his own lips, grimacing at the blood on the filter.

"That poor kid was gonna piss himself. Besides, he wasn't even there when Lip said that shit about Ma. Why should he catch a beating?" Mickey knows it's a flimsy excuse, but it's all he's got.

"Guilt by association." Iggy replies indignantly.

"Oh Igg! You learned a new word." Mickey laughs, bumping his shoulder against Iggy's tense one.

Iggy chuckles, knocking shoulders with Mickey again. Mickey hands him back his bag of candy, having retrieved them off the ground where Iggy dropped it when he pounced on Lip. Iggy nods gratefully, reaching in and fishing out a Zero bar. "C'mon man, let's hit up that party. I need to bust a nut after that stupid shit."

 

***

 

"What a couple of assholes." Lip mutters, wiping his bloody nose with his shirt sleeve. The brothers are making their way down Halsted, having decided to hit up the party after all. Ian doesn't really want to go, but Lip does, and after watching his brother get his ass kicked, Ian just wants to make him feel better.

"You did insult their dead mother." Ian replies quietly, tapping a cigarette out of a pack he stole from the QuickGo earlier that day. He brings the cigarette to his mouth and lights it, inhaling deeply to calm his frayed nerves. It's not like Ian's new to violence, but it's always scary watching his brother get beat on.

"How was I supposed to know she was dead?" Lip spat angrily, motioning for Ian's cigarette. Ian passed it over without complaint, shrugging.

"I guess that's what Mickey meant when he said to think before you speak."

"Oh, what? You're gonna defend that scumbag now? Seriously Ian? That whole family is trash. Their mom is lucky she's dead. At least she doesn't have to put up with them anymore."

"Lip, that's mean." Ian sighed, unsure why he was defending the Milkovich brothers. Something about the way Mickey's face looked when he talked about his mom. Ian has never seen anyone look so sad. Like he could break apart at any moment.

"Fuck that, Ian. Iggy and Mickey don't have feelings. They don't give a shit about anyone but themselves. They're both gonna end up in jail or dead before we even graduate high school. So don't worry your pretty little head about their non-existent emotions, okay?"

Ian nods, deciding it's better to drop it. When Lip is wound up like this, there is no reasoning with him. Even though Ian wants to tell him not to be such a dick. He wants to remind him that Frank and Monica are assholes too, but if they died, Ian's sure his family would be sad. He wants to remind him that compassion is a good thing, even if it's for someone you don't like all that much.

But he doesn't say any of that. He just walks beside his brother as they silently pass the cigarette between them.

Ian digs into his bag, dragging out a mini bag of skittles and tearing it open with his teeth. He dumps the whole thing into his hand and tosses them in his mouth, chewing absentmindedly as his mind starts to wander.

He wonders about Mickey. He doesn't know him all that well, but he knows he's in Lip's grade, with Iggy, who got held back last year. He knows Mickey and his brother just got out of juvie. He heard they were in for robbing a bank, but he's not sure he believes that. They've only been gone a few months, after all. 

He thinks about every time he's ever seen Mickey. That time he pushed a kid of the top of the slide at 4H summer camp. That time he pissed on first base in little league. He remembers seeing Mickey at a block party last summer. He had a black eye and a cast on his left wrist. He remembers seeing Mickey at a house party around Christmas time. Ian wasn't even supposed to be there, he had tagged along with Lip, eager to hang out with the older kids. He'd watched Mickey shotgun beers and smoke weed, horsing around with Iggy and some other kids from school. At the time, Ian hadn't thought much about it. But now, looking back, he's been going out of his way to find Mickey for a while now. Ian looks for him under the bleachers at school when he goes to smoke. He looks for him in the park when he is skateboarding with his friends. He looks for him when he's hanging out under the L, smoking weed.

Ian is hit with a startling realization in that moment.

He's got a crush on Mickey Milkovich.

What the fuck is wrong with him?

Ian doesn't even want to be gay. He's not even comfortable with the idea of crushing on any boy (Robbie Statham comes to mind, all wet and slippery in the gym shower, but he shuts that shit down quick.), never mind Mickey fucking Milkovich. His family is notoriously homophobic, and it would be suicidal for Ian to even look at Mickey sideways.

Yeah, there's something wrong with Ian's brain, for sure. Not only is he fucking gay, but he is batshit enough to even consider Mickey Milkovich as a possibility.

But Mickey is pretty fucking hot. In that dirty, thugged out prison rat kind of way. He's got nice toned arms, and his eyes are amazing.

Not that Ian's looking. He just noticed in passing.

Ian wonders what it would be like to touch Mickey. Is his skin soft? Is the rest of his body as muscular as his biceps? Ian's mind is drawn to Mickey's ass, what would it look like out of those baggy jeans he's always wearing? Ian's come to the recent conclusion that he's an ass man. He spends inordinate amounts of time staring at men's backsides in his stolen gay porn.

He can't stop his mind from imagining what Mickey's ass would look like, naked. High up in the air, with a big red welts across the cheeks in the shape of Ian's hands.

Ian shakes his head, begging his mind to stop this torture. He can feel his dick twitching in his pants and he is mortified at the very real possibility of him popping a boner in public, walking with his brother.

If Mickey knew Ian was even thinking like this, he'd beat him into a coma.

That does it. Ian's half chub shrivels and dies, Ian breathing a sigh of relief as they finally come upon Vinny Desota's house. It's a mess, like the rest of the neighborhood. The chain-link fence is broken, full panels hanging sideways, some laying in the grass. The siding is coming off the exterior walls, exposing the plywood substrate. There is trash strewn all over the yard. Broken beer bottles, chicken bones, fast food wrappers. Ian can even see a crack pipe tucked under the bottom step of the porch.

There are kids everywhere, all of them wasted in one way or another. Music blares through the open front window and there are smashed pumpkins all over the front walk.

"C'mon, I need a drink." Lip mutters, dragging Ian by his arm toward the steps.

Ian suddenly doesn't want to be here. It's a strange feeling, and it comes out of nowhere, but he very much wants to turn around and run the two blocks back to his house.

He doesn't, though, of course. He pushed down the odd spike of anxiety and follows his brother into the chaos.

He needs a drink too, he decides.

 

***

 

"This was a stupid idea." Mickey mutters quietly, casting his eyes around the living room. The place is fucking loud and chaotic, and he pretty much hates everyone here besides his brother.

Wait, scratch that. He kinda hates Iggy too at the moment, for dragging him to this stupid shit.

The man himself slides up next to Mickey, two cans of Old Style in his hand. He passes one to Mickey with a smirk. Mickey eyes the beer warily before accepting it with a scowl. Iggy hold his own can aloft, as if waiting for Mickey to toast him. Mickey only continues to glare.

"C'mon, bro. Don't leave me hangin'." Iggy pleads, shaking his can around a bit. Mickey rolls his eyes, but taps his can against his brothers.

"What exactly are we toasting, or do you even know?"

Iggy's smile widens. "You did good tonight with that Gallagher punk." he says, shocking Mickey.

"Huh? All I did was hold him down while you waled on his brother."

"Yeah, but you didn't let him get away. Send a message to that little faggot that we don't let anyone escape. He'll think twice before steppin' to us again."

Mickey nodded, feeling a little sick. He knows his brother doesn't mean it like that. Ian's not a fag. It's just Iggy's go-to insult whenever he comes across a kid he doesn't like.

But to Mickey, it's so much more than a word. Even when he says it (which he does, a lot) he feels that twinge in his gut.

He is so tired of this shit. Living a fucking lie. Ever since the day he discovered he was into dick, he's pretty much closed himself off from everyone. Built up a wall so high, no one can get past it.

Not that anyone's trying.

Iggy is still laughing about the tussle with Lip, but Mickey's pretty much ignoring him at this point. The two of them are tucked into a corner in the living room, just observing the chaos that is a south side house party. Mickey nods once in a while, giving the illusion that he is listening, when in reality he is still stuck on the altercation with the brothers Gallagher.

Mickey's used to giving beat downs. It's just who he is. Milkovich kids communicate with their fists.

Mickey doesn't want to think about why he went so easy on Ian earlier, even though it's painfully obvious. He doesn't want to consider the way he felt, standing over Ian on the street.  He doesn't want to think about Ian's bright green eyes, or how terrified they were when he looked up at Mickey. He doesn't want to think about Ian at all, or how much he's changed in the two months Mickey was inside. It's not like he pays all that much attention to Ian anyway.

He's kinda hard to miss, though, with that fire red hair and that ghost-pale skin. Kid has always stuck out like a ginger sore thumb.

But somehow, over the past two months, the kid has gone through some kind of insane transformation. He's grown at least two inches. He's taller than Mickey now, and for some strange reason, that really turns Mickey on. When Mickey got sent to juvie, Ian was still in his 'lost puppy' phase. He had this perpetually scared look on his freckled face, and this mop of red hair that was always falling in his eyes. He was scrawny and bony and his snow white skin was always covered in cuts and bruises.

But now. Jesus Christ. Even in that stupid doctor get up, it's painfully obvious that Ian's bulked up considerably. Mickey thinks about Ian's bulging biceps, muscles twitching as he struggled to free himself from Mickey's grip. Mickey remembers how Ian's scrub top had ridden up against his stomach, exposing surprisingly toned abs.

Mickey clenches his eyes shut tight. What is he doing? He needs to stop. He makes a concerted effort to listen to Iggy's story about a drunk guy he robbed on the El the other night. He needs to get his mind off that gay shit.

That plan seemed to be working okay, until That Gay Shit walked right through the front door.

Motherfucker.

 

***

 

Ian follows his brother into Vinny's house, pushing his way through the crowd of gyrating teenagers to get to the makeshift bar that's set up in the kitchen. He glances around the space, surprised to see so many neighborhood kids rocking costumes. For some reason, he didn't think anyone would, and he and Lip would stick out like lame sore thumbs.

But looking around, Ian sees a sea of painted faces and cheap costumes. He smiles, taking an offered beer out of his brother's hand and moving back toward the living room. He flops down on a miraculously unoccupied love seat, his brother crashing down next to him, spilling beer between them.

"Watch it, prick." Ian laughs, pushing Lip away. They tussle on the sofa for a minute, so enthralled in beating on each other, they don't notice they are being watched.

Mickey is leaning against the counter in the kitchen, sipping on his third beer of the night when Ian walks in. Mickey's face morphs into a smile momentarily, but he smooths it out with a hand over his mouth, glancing around guiltily, as if someone could read his mind.

In his inebriated state, he randomly thinks he might have summoned Ian here with his gay thoughts. Like some kind of homo homing beacon.  He shakes his head, chugging the rest of his beer before pushing off the wall and making his way over to the tub in the middle of the kitchen to grab another.

Even as he moves across the cramped kitchen to get to the tub, his eyes don't leave Ian. Ian's got this pissed off, irritated look on his face, and Mickey feel guilt swirl in his stomach along with all the booze he drank. Is Ian upset because of the fight earlier? He must be. But Mickey doesn't feel guilty for what they did to Lip.

You talk shit about Mickey's mom, you're going to get your ass kicked.

But Ian didn't do anything wrong, and Mickey is hit with the surreal desire to apologize.

Milkovichs are never sorry, period. They do what they want, take what they want, and if you don't like it, you can get fucked. That's what his father has beaten into them since they were old enough to listen.

So the unexpected remorse is jarring.

He watches Ian for a while. He has to hold in a smile as Ian's mood seems to improve with each beer he drinks. Soon, Ian is smiling again. Laughing with his brother and other random assholes from the neighborhood. Ian has a nice laugh. And an even better smile. It lights up his whole face.

Fucking beautiful.

The thought shocks Mickey. Kinda scares the hell out of him, actually.

Shit, that's the gayest thing Mickey's ever thought in his entire life. And he's had some pretty intensely gay thoughts. For some reason, finding another guy beautiful feels gayer than wanting to suck his dick.

Mickey shakes his head, willing himself to calm the fuck down. What is he thinking? He can't just go over to Ian and start a conversation. He can't risk it, even if it's just to say he's sorry. He can't let anyone know how fucking soft he really is.

That would be the end of his life.

So he turns away from Ian, even though all he wants to do is watch him laugh some more. He turns to his brother and their friend Dale, trying to get into a conversation about some strip club that doesn't card.

This is his life, he needs to remember that shit. There is no room for pretty boys with nice smiles. No matter how much Mickey might want that shit sometimes.

God, he's drunk. That is the only time he ever allows himself to entertain the idea that he is gay. That's the only time he ever lets his walls down enough to admit to himself that he's miserable, and that his life is going nowhere.

"Dude, her tits were perfect." Dale says, clapping his hand down hard on Mickey's shoulder. "Tight and perky, none of that fake melon shit. You woulda creamed your jeans, Igg."

Iggy laughed, and Mickey laughed along, all the while feeling like he was dying inside.

 

***

 

Ian wants to leave. This party sucks, and all the booze in the world can't compensate for that. He's still sitting on the couch, but he's alone now. Lip is playing beer pong, wiping the floor with the other players. A girl dressed like a slutty nun is hanging off Lip's arm, ear-piercing screams slipping past her painted lips every time Lip makes a shot. Ian rolls his eyes.

It's so easy for Lip. Everything comes to him so fucking easily. He's smart as shit, never gets lower than an A-. He's funny and makes friends easily, everyone at school likes him. And he never has a problem finding someone to suck his dick. Girls just fall into his lap, begging him for a taste.

It's just not fair.

Ian doesn't care that he's not as smart as his brother. That's whatever. Ian studies hard, and makes good grades all on his own. He doesn't care that Lip is so popular, because Ian's got a small group of real friends that have his back, and that's all he needs. The only thing that really bothers Ian is the fact that Lip can do what he's doing right now, and Ian can't.

Lip has the slutty nun pressed to his chest, his hands splayed out along her ass as he drunkenly pushes his tongue into her mouth. The kiss is sloppy and kind of nasty, but Ian can't stop watching the girl. She looks totally blissed out, so free and uninhibited. She's smiling against Lip's mouth, her fingers twisted in his unruly brown hair.

Ian watches his brother making out with that girl, like a total creep. He's so overcome with jealousy he can feel it bubbling in his stomach. He wants to puke.

Ian lurches forward, grabbing his beer off the coffee table and chugging it. He is struck in that moment by the utter hopelessness of his situation.

He's a gay teenager on the south side. He'll never be able to do what Lip is doing right now. Kiss someone he likes. Dance with a hot boy. Hold hands walking down the street. Make out at a stupid house party. He'll never have any of those things, not as long as he lives here.

Ian finishes the rest of his drink, standing unsteadily from the loveseat. He's fucking done. He wants to go home. He weaves his way through the throngs of people, trying to get to the back bedroom to get his bag of candy. He's not leaving this stupid party without his candy.

His Halloween has been shitty enough, without having to give up the one cool thing about the whole night.

He storms down the hall, shoulder checking some dumbass dressed as Austin Powers, anger and resentment seething through his body as he makes his way to the back of the house.

In his irate, drunken state, he doesn't realize he's being followed.

 

***

 

Mickey was just minding his own business. Leaning up against a wall in the kitchen, working on his sixth beer of the night as he watched Ian sitting on the couch alone. Mickey could tell something was wrong. Ian's got this look on his face like he could burn this whole house to the ground with all the kids still inside and be happy about it.

Mickey can relate to that.

Mickey sips his beer, watching Ian drink alone, his face drawn and sullen. In his mind, Mickey goes over there countless times, sits down next to Ian. Asks him what's wrong. Asks him if he's still mad about the fight. Asks Ian if there is anything he can do to help. Tells him he's sorry, over and over.

Of course he doesn't do any of that shit. He can't. Not here, with so many people around. And maybe not even if it were just the two of them. Mickey doesn't know how to have a real conversation with anyone. He's got nothing in the way of social skills, and he'd probably just embarrass himself, and scare Ian even more.

Mickey stands in the kitchen downing beer after beer as he silently berates himself for being such a pussy. Such a dumbass. Such a faggot.

He watches Iggy as he grabs Missy Roberts by the hips and leads her toward one of the back bedrooms.

Looks like at least one of them is getting laid tonight.

Mickey rolls his eyes. Maybe he should just leave. He's not having fun, and if he goes now, while Iggy is busy, he can avoid having to fuck that Tammy girl.

Yeah, he's gonna go.

That's the plan, at least, until Mickey watches Ian jolt up off the couch he's been tethered to all night and make a bee line for the back rooms.

Mickey is moving before his brain even know what his feet are doing. He dodges a couple dry humping on the dance floor, slipping in some spilled liquor and almost face-planting. He steadies himself on the wall, cursing under his breath as he tries not to lose sight of Ian. The last thing he wants to do is end up in the wrong room and catch the sight of his brother's naked ass.

Ian ducks into the room at the far end of the hall, and Mickey is right behind him.

 

***

 

Ian looks around the bedroom, searching for his pillow case full of candy. The room is a mess, much like the rest of the house. There are empty beer bottles and ashtrays full cigarette butts, a water bong and what looks like a soiled dildo.

Ew.

There are piled of dirty clothes in one corner, an even higher pile of dirty dishes on a bureau that has all the draws pulled out, unfolded clothes spilling out and onto the floor. The bed is messy and unmade, an impressive array of strange stains splattered all over the rumpled sheets.

Ian grimaces at the mess. Not even his house is this nasty. And that's really saying something. He catches sight of his bag of candy. It's tossed haphazardly against the wall, under the broken window. There is a cut up cardboard beer box stuffed into the space where the window pane used to be, and Ian rolls his eyes. Everywhere he looks, he's reminded of how fucking trashy this neighborhood is. How trashy he is.

He grabs his bag, turning a little too fast to leave the room because in his inebriated state he stumbles and knocks his head against the wall.

Shit, he's drunker than he thought.

He's startled when he hears someone chuckle behind him. He spins around fast again, almost falling on his ass this time.

What he sees when he turns has him taking a quick step back, glancing over his shoulder for a possible escape route.

Mickey is standing there, leaning up against the now closed door. His eyes are hard, but he's smiling.

It's unnerving.

"What...what do you want?" Ian sputters, clutching his bag of candy to his chest like a shield. "I was just leaving. I wanna go home." he hates how weak he sounds. That's the last thing he needs, for Mickey to see him as an easy mark.

Ian can already feel the beat down coming, and Mickey hasn't even moved yet.

"Leaving so soon?" Mickey asks, all nonchalant, even though inside he's losing his damn mind. "You just got here."

Ian is shocked. What the fuck is happening right now? Is Mickey trying to lull him into a false sense of security? So Ian will let his guard down?

Well, that's not gonna fucking happen.

Ian tosses his bag of candy onto the nasty bed, striding over to Mickey. He's so done with this night. So done with this asshole. If Mickey wants a fight, he'll get one.

Ian's not a bitch. He's no faggot.

"You got a problem, Mickey?" Ian's voice is hard, but it waivers, and Ian knows Mickey heard it, because his smirk quirks up higher.

"Nah, man." Mickey says, shaking his head as he fishes inside his pocket for something.

Ian jumps back, expecting a knife or something equally terrifying. It's fair to say he was perplexed when Mickey pulled out an impressive bag of weed.

"Listen, man. I'm shit at this kinda thing. But it was pretty fucked up, what happened earlier. My brother is real protective of my Ma's memory or whatever. But I don't think your douchebag brother knew she was dead. He's just a dick, I think. And you didn't do shit, you weren't even there when Lip said that shit. So, let me smoke you up? D'ya think that'll square us?"

Mickey says the words, even though he's not sure where they came from. He didn't have a plan when he followed Ian into the bedroom. But it feels right. If he can't say what he really thinks, can't talk about how he really feels, he can at least get Ian high, maybe show Ian that Mickey's not a total scumbag.

He doesn't want to admit to himself, he wants Ian to like him. He really wants that.

It's a new feeling for Mickey. He can't remember the last time he cared what anyone thought of him.

Ian, for his part, is profoundly perplexed. He can't shake the feeling that this is some kind of set up. Did Mickey figure out that Ian's gay? Does he have some kind of superpower he uses to single out queer kids so he can beat them bloody?

On the other hand, Mickey looks so open and honest right now. His eyes are soft and he keeps biting his bottom lip, like he's nervous or something. It's fucking adorable.

Fine, whatever. If this is some elaborate hoax to get Ian in a vulnerable position, Ian will be ready for that. But he wants to believe Mickey is being genuine.

He really wants to believe that.

"Um, sure." Ian mutters, unsure what else to say. "That would be cool."

"Yeah?" Mickey asks, his face lighting up. When he's drunk like this, he can't mask his emotions like he usually can. He's an open fucking book. And while that is usually dangerous, he's not scared with Ian. He should be, but he's not.

"Yeah." Ian nods, giving Mickey a smile of his own. He flops down on the nasty mattress, no longer giving two shits about the bizarre stains.

Mickey nods too, dropping down next to Ian and pulling a magazine off the overflowing nightstand. He lays it over his lap and dumps a good amount of weed onto it, breaking it up quickly and efficiently. He tosses it into a paper and twists it up, licking the seam to seal it. Out of the corner of his eye, he swears he can see Ian watching him. He doesn't dare look up, because he's certain he's blushing like an idiot.

Yeah, maybe it wasn't a good idea to offer to smoke up his Big Gay Problem.

The chances that Ian is into dick too are slim to none, and if the ginger Gallagher gets an inkling that Mickey is into cock, he could ruin Mickey's life with one sentence.

Shitty, stupid idea. But it's too late to take it back now. Mickey just has to play it cool, get high, and get gone. Yeah, okay. He can do that.

He places the joint in his mouth and lights it, taking a long drag before passing it to Ian. Mickey holds the smoke in his lungs as he watches Ian take a hit. Mickey is totally enraptured, watching Ian's cheeks hollow as he pulls on the joint. Ian's eyes slipped closed and his head tipped back, a satisfied smile splitting his lips as he exhaled toward the ceiling.

Wow. That's some seriously strong weed. That's Ian's only coherent thought as he passes the joint back. As his high washes over him, he's suddenly very aware of how close he is sitting to Mickey. How he could reach out and touch him, if he wanted to.

Not that he wants to. He's not stupid.

But if he did want to, Mickey was right fucking there.

The two boys sit in silence for a while, just passing the joint back and forth. Each one surreptitiously watching the other, but both too fucked up to notice the other's leering.

Mickey reaches out, tapping Ian's shoulder, and Ian jumps a mile.

"What?" he asks, turning to face Mickey, his eyes wide and scared.

"Dude, pass the weed, man. You've been holding it for like, ever." Mickey smiles, can't help it. Ian is hilarious, even though he's clearly not trying to be.

Ian looks from Mickey's face, to his own hand, which is indeed holding the joint, before looking back up to meet Mickey's expectant eyes.

"Oh, sorry." Ian mumbles sheepishly before passing it over. Mickey rolls his eyes, but takes the weed, pulling on the joint one last time before tossing it on the floor and stomping it out. This house is already trashed, what's one more burn on the carpet?

Ian watches Mickey dispose of the last of the joint, and suddenly realizes there is no longer a reason for him to be sitting there. He should probably get up, leave Mickey alone. For some reason, Ian is afraid to be alone with Mickey. Like at any moment, Ian's secret could be discovered and his whole world could implode in a storm of fists and blood.

Mickey is very much in the same mindset. His brain on a constant loop of 'don't look too long.' don't you dare lean closer.' don't touch him. ' 'just don't.' He sighs, a little bit angry that getting high didn't quell his craving for the other boy. Weed is usually a good distraction from his gay thoughts, but being this close to Ian is fucking him up.

Ian jumps up from the bed, startling Mickey. "What the fuck, where's the fire?" Mickey asks, glancing at Ian warily.

"I was just gonna go..." Ian says, feeling like an idiot. He grips his stethoscope in his hand, inspecting it diligently, desperate to give his eyes something to focus on besides Mickey's lips.

"Oh." Mickey replies, unable to mask his disappointment. He looks around the room, avoiding Ian's eyes. He watches the other boy walk toward the closet. Ian bends down to scoop a pillow case up off the floor. Mickey stares at his ass the whole time. No one can see him looking and it's too good an opportunity to pass up. Ian straightens back up and Mickey finally realizes what's in his hand.

His trick or treating loot.

Mickey's mouth waters, and he kind of wishes his bag of candy was in the bedroom too. He doesn't know where Iggy stashed their shit, but he's craving a baby snickers bar right now. He licks his lips as Ian wanders back over toward the bed, sitting down much closer to Mickey than he did the first time.

"Want some candy? Like, before I go or whatever...." Ian asks shyly. God, he feels like an idiot, but he stoned as shit and his stomach is growling. He hasn't eaten a thing all day. And he honestly doesn't want to leave Mickey just yet. Mickey seemed genuinely bummed when Ian said he was going home, and he is being nice right now. If Ian can keep his weed-induced paranoia at bay, things just might be okay.  "I'm starved."

Mickey nods stupidly, miraculously waiting until Ian offers him the bag to stick his hand in. He grips as much candy as he can in his fist before dragging it out of the bag and dumping the haul onto his lap.

Ian does the same, laying the bag in the small space between them as he opens a mini Twix and pops one in his mouth.

Ian's not sure when his master plan of 'get away from Mickey' turned into 'share all my candy with Mickey', but the happy, sated look on Mickey's face when he tears into his second Snickers is really sweet.

Ian never thought he'd think 'sweet' when looking at Mickey Milkovich, but his whole reality has been knocked off its axis tonight, so....

"These fun size candy bars are the best." Ian grins, stuffing a tiny Mr. Goodbar in his mouth happily. He chews, amused at the disgusted expression spreading across Mickey's face as he pulls an apple out of the bag. Mickey tosses the offending fruit over his shoulder lazily, nodding to himself when it lands on the floor behind him with a splat before going back to rummaging through Ian's pillow case.

"Fun size sucks, man." Mickey states emphatically. "Why the hell do I want a tiny taste of candy, when I can have the whole fucking thing?"

"I dunno." Ian shrugs, unwrapping a jolly rancher. "The small ones are cool cuz there are so many different ones, y'know. You never know what you're gonna get when you put your hand in the bag."

"My brother said I'm fun size." Mickey mutters angrily before glancing up at Ian, his cheeks burning red. He didn't mean to tell Ian that shit. Mickey is way more fucked up than he thought.

He needs to get the hell out of this room.

Ian smiles, tilting his head to the side. The weed and booze combined with Mickey's company has Ian feeling better than he has all day. "What's wrong with being fun size?"

"I ain't fucking fun size. I'm only fifteen. I could still grow." Mickey can't seem to shut the fuck up. He stuffs a Reese's peanut butter cup in his mouth, hopeful the treat with plug up his stupid face, keep him from saying any more dumb shit.

"Fun size candy is perfect, Mickey." Ian replies, glancing up at him through his lashes. "Just enough to satisfy you, but not enough to make you sick. I like that." Ian's playing with a fun size snickers before tossing it to Mickey. Mickey catches it, rolling his eyes at Ian. "You're a fun size snickers, I've decided." Ian chuckles. He's stoned as fuck, but for some reason it makes perfect sense at the moment.

 "Fun size snickers, huh?" Mickey smiles, shaking his head. Is Ian hitting on him? There's no fucking way.

Mickey wants it, though. He wants Ian. The thought should scare him, but it doesn't. Not with all the booze and drugs coursing through his system. All that's left in Mickey's mind is how good it feels to be sitting with Ian. How much better it would feel to sit a little bit closer.

Mickey doesn't break eye contact as he scoots over, just a tiny bit closer to Ian. It's enough, though. Ian's breath catches in the back of his throat and his eyes go wide.

No way, there is no way Mickey is looking at Ian like that. Ian can feel his palms starting to sweat, his body tight and keyed up. He's so on edge, waiting to see what Mickey's going to do next.

Mickey leans in, like he wants to tell Ian a secret.

Ian leans in too, feeling a little desperate. So on edge. Scared as fuck, but even more excited. He holds his breath....

But nothing happens.

Because at that moment the bedroom door flies open and Ian and Mickey go scrambling apart. Ian's heart is in his throat and he swears he can't breathe. He watches Iggy Milkovich standing in the doorway. He looks confused, like he can't comprehend what he is seeing.

Mickey feels like he's dying. What the fuck is he doing? Was he really that close to kissing Ian Gallagher at a neighborhood party? What the fuck?

"Dude, what are you doing?" Iggy asks, glancing between Ian and Mickey with an unreadable expression on his face.

"Getting high, what's it to you?" Mickey barked, jumping up from the bed and putting some much-needed distance between him and Ian.

"With this prick?" Iggy motions to Ian, who is standing off to the side with his candy back in his hand, staring at his shoes.

"Free weed is free weed, Igg." Mickey shrugged, praying to every god he's ever heard of that Iggy lets this shit drop.

Iggy nodded, still glaring at Ian.

Ian's not stupid. He knows what Mickey is doing. But it still stings. To be dismissed like that. To be made to feel so insignificant and unimportant.

"Whatever." Iggy shrugs. "C'mon, Tammy's waitin' for ya. I told her your gonna rock her world, so get that micro-dick of yours in the game and get over there." he slaps his brother on the shoulder and Mickey smirks at him, nodding. Iggy gives his brother a lecherous grin before leaving the way he came.

Mickey sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as his fake smile slides off his face. He chances a glance back at Ian, which was a stupid idea, because Ian looks confused and a little bit angry. But Mickey doesn't have time for that. He and Ian barely know each other, and whatever just went down between them needs to end right now.

So, Mickey turns his back on Ian and walks out of the room without another word.

He feels like he's dying the whole way down the hallway.

Those few minutes with Ian was the best Mickey has felt in months. Even if the kid doesn't play for his team, (which Mickey is pretty sure he does now) Ian was funny and nice and Mickey enjoyed talking to him more than all the other assholes at this party combined.

But it's best for Mickey to just walk away now. He can't trust himself around someone like Ian. Mickey can tell right away that being too close to Ian for too long will only end in pain. Mickey needs to stay in check. He needs to maintain control. And just sitting next to Ian makes Mickey want to throw all that shit right out the window. He doesn’t want to pretend when he's near Ian. And that is very dangerous.

So Mickey walked away. He had to.

 

***

 

Ian stands in the bedroom for a few minutes after Mickey leaves. Ian is drunk and stoned and a little slow on the uptake.

Did Ian just have a moment with Mickey Milkovich? Like a real, honest to god moment? With laughter and flirting and kindness? Did that really just happen?

Ian doesn't know what to think. Except that he's kind of hurt that Mickey just walked away from him like that. Left without a word. Seemingly to go fuck some random slut.

Ian cringes. Fine, whatever. If that's how Mickey feels, then fine. Ian doesn't even like him all that much anyway.

Ian's not going to get all upset over Mickey fucking Milkovich. He's not.

What he is gonna do is go the fuck home.

He leaves the bedroom storming down the hallway and back into the main room of the house. The party has gotten even bigger and crazier since he'd gone into the bedroom with Mickey. There are now half dressed girls dancing on table tops, guys snorting coke off the cracked glass coffee table, kids younger than Ian funneling beers in the kitchen.

Yeah, this is not Ian's scene. He glances around the living room quickly, trying to find Lip anywhere. When he doesn't see him right away, he sighs, pushing his way through the pulsating crowd to get to the front door.

Once he's outside, he feels a million times better. It's comparatively quiet, first of all. And secondly, the air is crisp and cooler. Not very clean, but he's in the heart of the city, so clean air is a pipe dream. He's just glad to be away from all the chaos.

And he's sure as shit glad to be away from Mickey fucking Milkovich.

Ian still feels really high. He blames that feeling for the never ending loop of all things Mickey that pass through his mind as he makes his way down the street toward his house. He thinks of Mickey's smile as he watched Ian stuff an entire Mr. Peanut in his mouth. He thinks of the way Mickey laughed when Ian told him he was fun sized. He thinks of the angry, sad, resigned look that flitted over Mickey's face when his brother told him Tammy Wentworth was waiting for him in the bedroom.

He didn't imagine that, right? Mickey really did look upset when Iggy told him to go fuck that bitch, right? Ian's fucked up, but his mind wouldn't conjure up and image like that. Right?

Ian groans, driving a closed fist into his thigh as he walks. He feels so stupid. Is he really trying to decode a Mickey Milkovich look? What the hell is he thinking?

He chalks it up to the drugs and booze as he makes his way down the street. He dodges random people here and there. No more trick or treaters, it's too late. The streets are now full of wasted party people, much like him, just trying to stumble their way from point A to point B.

Ian turns a corner sharply, coming onto S. Homan with an angry vengeance that isn't really warranted for the situation.

As he climbs the stairs to his door, he promises himself in that moment that he is done thinking about Mickey Milkovich. He's not going to look for him anymore around the neighborhood, or at school. He's not going to wonder about him when he's not around. He's not going to wonder what he's thinking when he has that lost, pensive look on his face.

Ian's not going to think about Mickey at all anymore. He's done.

Ian is confident in his decision when he crosses the threshold into his house, finding Fiona watching a bloody horror flick with Debbie and Carl.

Yeah. Fuck all that noise. He has all he needs right here, with his family.

 

***

 

Mickey can still see Ian's stunned, sad face as he walks down the hall toward the back bedroom.

He doesn't want to do this. He wants to chase Ian down the street. He wants to scream 'Wait! Ian! Don't go. Please, just hear me out.'

But he can't say that shit. Of course, he can't say that shit.

He's trapped.

Buried under years of expectations and repression and tradition of douchbaggery.

Mickey can't do a god damn thing. Except what he's doing now. Which is standing over Tammy. She's spread out on a bed in yet another back bedroom. She's got her witch costume hiked up over her hips, her lacy black underwear standing out in stark contrast to her pale skin. Mickey looks down on her as he unzips his pants, willing his body to get in the game.

He's fucked girls before. He's been fucking girls since he was thirteen. His body works the way it's supposed to, even if Mickey has to force it with more enticing mental images.

He notices a pile of condoms on the nightstand table, grabbing one and ripping the wrapper with his teeth as he strokes his dick to full hardness.

Tammy is watching him, a perplexed look on her face as she runs her fingers along the waistband of her lacy black underwear.

Her body really doesn't do anything for Mickey. He has no desire to kiss her painted lips or touch her skin. He doesn't want to grab her breasts or ass. He just wants to do what he came to do, save face, and get the fuck away from this stupid party.

"Take those off." Mickey says, slipping the condom onto his dick. He's only about half hard, but he should be able to work with it. He's trying his best not to think of Ian, even though that's where his mind keeps pulling him back to.

Mickey usually conjures up images of hot dudes to help him along when he's in between some slut's legs. But for whatever reason, he doesn't want to bring Ian into this. It feels wrong.

That's different.

"Don't you want to?" Tammy asks, biting her lip. Mickey's sure it's supposed to look sexy, but she just looks stupid to him. "Don't you want to touch me?" her face is uncertain, and Mickey knows what he is doing is not normal. He should be laying on top of her, his hands all over her body as he kisses her. The should be getting hot and heavy, turning each other on before he fucks her.

But the thought of doing any of that makes his stomach turn.

"I want to fuck you." Mickey says bluntly. "So take your god damn underwear off and roll over. Hands and knees. I got shit to do." he knows he's being mean, but he kind of wants her to call this whole thing off. If she leaves and tells everyone Mickey's a dick, maybe he won't have to do this at all.

But she doesn't do any of that. Because Tammy is south side. She's used to people treating her like shit, Mickey guesses. Especially guys. She's probably used to being used for her body and tossed aside after.

Yeah, that has to be it, because she does what he says without another word. She wriggles out of her underwear, tossing them on the floor by the bed before she rolls over, assuming the position. She hangs her head, her hips swaying drunkenly as Mickey kneels behind her on the bed.

Mickey grips his condom-clad dick in his hand, jerking it roughly as his other hand reaches up to grip Tammy's hip. He closes his eyes as the room starts to spin a little bit. He's so fucked up right now, the weight of all the booze and weed is heavy on him as he closes the final distance between them.

Tammy makes a strange noise when he enters her. An almost pained whimper slips past her lips. Mickey doesn't know what that means, nor does he care. He gets straight to business, fucking her roughly. He bites his lips, concentrating harder than he should have to in a moment like this.

Sex is supposed to be fun. This is not fun.

Mickey's mind is drawn back to Ian in that moment, even as he tries to block it out. He can't seem to help himself, replaying his interaction with the ginger Gallagher as he plows Tammy against the headboard.

In Mickey's mind, the situation goes differently than it did in reality. In Mickey's mind, all kinds of good shit happens.

In Mickey's mind, Ian is gay too, and he likes him. He kisses Mickey and it's better than anything else Mickey has ever felt. In his mind, Mickey lets Ian do whatever he wants, and it feels so good to just let go.

In Mickey's mind, Ian touches him like no one ever has, makes him feel things he never felt before.

Tammy moans, and Mickey's drawn back to the moment. His hands are gripping her hips firmly, but his body is moving independently of his brain. His brain is full of red hair and pale skin.

Mickey imagines what it would be like to have Ian's mouth wrapped around his dick instead of this girl's pussy. He imagines the wet warmth of Ian's lips and tongue. He imagines the look in Ian's eyes as he deep-throats Mickey's cock. He imagines Ian swallowing his load with a sated smile.

Mickey's orgasm sneaks up on him. He wasn't really paying attention. He groans lowly, spilling into the condom, the crystal clear image of Ian on his knees still in the forefront of his mind.

Shit. Fuck. What the hell was that?

Mickey pulls out and immediately. He strips the condom, dropping it on the floor carelessly as he puts his dick away. He needs to get as far away from this place as he can. He's anxious and angry with himself for thinking of Ian like that.

Tammy smiles at him, rolling off the bed and retrieving her underwear. She pulls them up and over her hips, still smiling. "That was good." she says, straightening out her costume as best she can.

Mickey's not sure she means it, and he doesn't really care.

"Yeah, whatever." Mickey shrugs, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. His eyes land on his trick or treating loot, sitting on a chair by the closet. he grabs it and turns toward the door, making a concerted effort to not look at Tammy again.

"We could do that again some time, if you wanted." Tammy says, reaching out and wrapping her hand around his forearm as he moves to open the door.

"Maybe." Mickey replies tersely, shaking her off and making his way out of the room without another word.

Mickey wants to leave. Fuck Iggy and this party. Fuck Halloween and fuck his life. Mickey feels so trapped, he can barely fucking breathe. He needs to be alone, somewhere he can just be for two seconds. Where he can just be Mickey, not the persona he adopts when he's out in the world.

Mickey's not even sure who he really is, under all the layers of fake bullshit he dons day in and day out. Mickey the thug. Mickey the fag basher. Mickey the player. Mickey the delinquent.

It's tiresome and it's depressing, and Mickey doesn't want to pretend anymore tonight.

So he shoves his way through the party goers, desperate to get the fuck out of this house.

Once he's outside, he breathes a sigh of relief. What a shit show that was. Next time he's staying the fuck home.

He makes his way down the street, heading for his house. It's well after one in the morning now, and the neighborhood is quieter than it was earlier. There are still people milling about, but not nearly as many as before.

Mickey cast his eyes around the neighborhood as he walks, taking in the destruction that comes with any holiday on the south side. There are smashed pumpkins everywhere. Orange goo and pumpkin seeds spread out along the sidewalk and street. It looks like someone egged the neighborhood too. Yolks and shells all over the parked cars, sliding down windows and splattered all over the street. Someone TP'd all the fences on the north side of the street, as well as the one tree Mickey comes across on his walk. There is also new graffiti everywhere. Stupid, crude shit sprayed on the street signs with orange spray paint. Mickey sees some pentagrams, a ridiculous looking ghost, and a fair amount of dicks. He chuckles. Only on the south side.

Mickey ambles drunkenly through the neighborhood, heading slowly toward his house as he picks through his bag of candy, shoving confections in his mouth as he goes.

His mind is drawn back to Ian yet again, and an idea comes to mind. He knows it's a dumb fucking thing to do, but he's too drunk to be reasonable.

So he takes a left when he should be taking a right, heading further away from his house, and directly towards a really bad idea.

 

***

 

Ian's eyes are heavy. He's drunk and stoned, and he can barely stay awake. He should get up and go to bed, but that feels like too much work.

He's laying splayed out on the couch. Fiona, Liam and Debbie went to bed hours ago. It's just Ian and Carl now, since Lip never came home after Ian ditched him at the party.

Nightmare on Elm Street 3 is playing on the TV. Carl is passed out in the chair, still dressed in his vampire costume, fake blood caked all over his face. Ian's still in his stupid scrubs too, too lazy to walk up the stairs and change.

He glances at the clock. 1:30 am. He needs to go to bed. He sighs, struggling to sit up. He reaches over and taps Carl's leg.

"C'mon." Ian mutters. "Get up and go to bed."

Carl grumbles, but does as Ian says. He lurches off the chair and stumbles up the stairs without a word.

Ian watches him go with a small smile before turning to the mess they'd left on the table. There are candy wrappers, empty beers, and other random trash littered all over the surface. Ian wants to leave it, but he knows he'll just have to clean it in the morning, so he starts gathering up the garbage.

As he cleans, his mind is drawn back to Mickey. Ian hasn't been able to shake his thoughts of the other boy all night.

Ian keeps replaying their last moments together in his mind. How close they were sitting, that soft, almost hopeful look in Mickey's eyes.  The way his face lit up when he laughed. The way his face fell when Iggy showed up.

There's no way Ian imagined all that. There has to be something there. Right?

No. Just no. Ian can't afford to think like that. He can't allow himself to catch feelings for someone like Mickey Milkovich. Even if by some miracle Mickey was into guys, there is no way he'd ever act on it. Not with his father, not with his family, not with his reputation.

Ian falling for Mickey would be like shooting himself in the dick.

He's not going there.

Besides, Ian knows what Mickey is doing right now. Tammy fucking Wentworth. If that's not a sign that wanting Mickey is pointless and hopeless, Ian doesn't know what it. He sighs, promising himself in that moment that he is done. For real this time. He's writing off Mickey forever. He won't let that guy rent space in his head anymore.

Ian cleans up the living room, grabbing his cigarettes before heading toward the front door. Fiona's on this 'no smoking in the house' kick right now. He's sure by this time next week he'll be able to smoke in his room again, but for the time being, he's relegated to the porch.

Ian slips out of the house silently, flicking on the porch light and turning around to drop down on the top step. His eyes catch on something sitting on the top step.

At first he's confused, but soon the pieces fall into place and a huge smiles blooms on his lips.

Sitting on the top step, near the railing, is a huge pile of fun size Snickers bars.

Ian can't believe it.

Mickey came all the way to his house, two blocks out of his way. It looks like Mickey also went out of his way to pick through his entire trick or treating haul, plucking out all the snickers bars, and leaving them on Ian's porch.

Ian knows it was Mickey, even though the other boy is nowhere to be seen. It's so surreal to Ian, that Mickey would do something like this.

It's so sweet and thoughtful. Ian's glad in that moment that he teased Mickey a little bit. Calling him a fun size Snickers. Ian can't believe he said that, but he's glad he did.

He can see himself doing it again too, teasing Mickey. He makes this adorably grumpy face when you take the piss outta him. Ian's gonna tease Mickey every chance he gets, if the opportunity presents itself. If it gets him more moments like this, he'll do just about anything.

Ian flops down on the top step next to the pile of candy bars. He lights a cigarette as his eyes inevitably fall to the candy again.

He wonders what Mickey's doing right now, if he’s thinking of Ian like Ian's thinking of him. Ian's already formulating his next move in this little dance he's been conscripted to. He has to do something.

Any and all thoughts of distancing himself from Mickey disappear from his mind, replaced with much more pleasant thoughts of getting as close as possible in as little time possible. He wants Mickey, no matter how dangerous is obviously is.

Ian grabs up one of Mickey's Snickers bars, unwrapping it and popping it into his mouth, a small smile on his lips as the sweetness of the treat overtakes his mouth.

Ian closes his eyes, imagining the look on Mickey's face when he bit into the candy.

Ian knows in that moment, he's not nearly done with Mickey Milkovich.

This is just the beginning, Ian can feel it.

Mickey's wrong about one thing, though. Fun size is not stupid. Because in Ian's mind, Mickey's smaller frame combined with his larger than life personality is the human embodiment of 'Fun Size'.

And Ian can't wait to get a taste of that.


End file.
